


The Story of Tonight

by belmanoir



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:39:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6413029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/pseuds/belmanoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three angsty hook-ups that could have happened at Alexander Hamilton's wedding.</p><p>
  <em>The noise of the party is muted by the windows, but for a moment Alexander’s voice carries above the crowd. Not the words, only his voice, loud and high, happy and excited and talking way too fast. Angelica's head turns instinctively towards the sound. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>To her surprise, so does Burr's. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story of Tonight

1\. _I'm not falling behind or running late_ \- Aaron Burr and Angelica Schuyler 

Angelica’s drunk a glass too many of champagne, maybe. Maybe not. Maybe this is exactly the right amount. She has to run upstairs to use the chamber pot, and then she has to lean against the wall and press her fist against her mouth and not cry, because all of Eliza's things are gone from their room. No matter how much Angelica promises herself that now she can take up the whole bed and touch herself and stay up late reading and leave her things on the floor, she can't feel anything but a hollow, frightened sadness about it.

She always thought _she_ would be the one getting married first and leaving Eliza behind.

When she finally throws back her shoulders and marches downstairs for more party, Aaron Burr is putting on his hat and gloves in the foyer. Which means he stayed all of five minutes, since he hadn't arrived yet when she went upstairs. She doesn't understand why Alexander is friends with such a douche.

Queasily, she replays for the millionth time the seamless way Alexander shifted his attentions from her to Eliza, his daring wit becoming eager sincerity in the blink of an eye. Maybe Alexander is a douche too.

Maybe all men are, and she should just give up now and marry the next rich man who asks. Maybe when she finally meets Thomas Jefferson, he'll be a douche too.

"Going so soon?" she asks poisonously.

Burr looks up, his eyes meeting hers like an electric shock. She presses her lips together, hating that she's attracted to him. He grins at her. "Will you miss me?"

"Not even a little."

He doesn't blink at the insult. Burr's never flirted with her because he likes her; he does it to make her uncomfortable. It's pathetic, really. She's Angelica Schuyler. Comfortable is what she does. He can't shake her.

For a moment, she actually doesn't want him to go. There's none of the kinship she feels with Alexander, no sympathy or delight, but...it _is_ matching wits. 

She marches past him and holds the door pointedly open—oh, it’s begun to snow!

Picking up her skirts, she rushes out onto the porch. It's roofed, so she runs down the steps too and onto the street. Snowflakes sting her face and hands. She laughs and catches one on her tongue, a small pure pleasure she can barely feel. 

Snow is dirty and wet and inconvenient and cold, she knows all that. But when it first starts falling it's magic every time—remaking the world into something beautiful, something not yet ruined. 

Burr stands on the porch, watching her silently. She knows she's being adorable and he's the only person here to flirt with, and he looks so handsome in his uniform. Oh, how she covets those blue-and-buff uniforms. It's not fair she won't ever have one. "Loan me your coat," she says. "I don't want my silk to spot."

His smile blooms abruptly. "Far be it from me to deny a lady." Taking off his coat, he comes down the steps to drape it over her shoulders. 

She puts her arms in the sleeves so he can’t take it back. He's a small man; it almost fits. Shutting her eyes and tilting her face up to the falling snow, she runs her fingers along the brass-buttoned cuffs and imagines that later she's riding to headquarters to copy letters for the General instead of crying herself to sleep.

"I'll loan you the pants too if you like." Burr's only needling, but oh, how she wants them! He caresses the coat’s lapel, insinuatingly. "I was going to say it looks better on you, but we both know that's a lie."

The noise of the party is muted by the windows, but for a moment Alexander’s voice carries above the crowd. Not the words, only his voice, loud and high, happy and excited and talking way too fast. Angelica's head turns instinctively towards the sound. 

To her surprise, so does Burr's. 

He catches her catch him looking, and smiles. "I hope he doesn't get too drunk to satisfy your sister," he says to distract her.

It works. Eliza's been looking forward to tonight. Should Angelica go inside and make Alexander stop drinking? She knows exactly how she would do it—pluck the glass from his hand with a smile of flirtatious command, make some not-quite-bawdy remark along the lines of what Burr just said.

The truth hurts, though: Eliza is married, and Angelica can't protect her anymore. Even worse, Eliza doesn't need her to: Angelica’s not as indispensable as she likes to think. Eliza will learn to manage Alexander herself, and if tonight isn't perfect, tomorrow will be.

"You speak from experience, I take it," she says nastily, because if she doesn't say something Burr might ask why. Too late, she realizes she should have pretended not to understand him.

Burr's smile widens. "There's more than one way to satisfy a lady, should the necessity...fail to arise." 

She wishes with all her shredded heart that Alexander were out here with her instead of Burr. He's from St. Croix; she would ask him about the first time he saw snow, and did he love or hate it, and is he cold in New York even in the spring? But he's inside with Eliza, and Angelica is a flame that will never be fed or quenched. She's so tired of waiting, tired of balancing on the knife-edge that separates fascinating from _fast_. She's only allowed to be daring and talk about Thomas Paine because everyone knows she's actually as pure as snow, and she's careful not to jeopardize that.

 _I’m sure I don't know what you mean, you forget yourself,_ she told Alexander, but she knew what he meant. 

She can't trust Burr. But there isn't anyone she _can_ trust, and right now she almost wants it that way, wants this to be a stupid, reckless thing to do just to prove that she won't always pull back just at the cliff’s edge.

When she sees her sister tomorrow, Eliza won't be a virgin anymore. Angelica doesn't want to fall behind.

"Do you think you can satisfy me, Burr?" she demands.

Somewhat to her surprise, Burr hesitates. He pulls out his watch and checks the time and chews on his lip. Then he raises his eyebrows at her, his face suddenly full of promise and certainty. “Only you know the answer to that.” His voice dares her to pull back, to say she didn’t really mean what she meant. “But I’ve got an hour or so to make the experiment.” Angelica supposes he has a rendezvous with Mrs. Prevost later. 

Clearly he isn’t afraid of wearing himself out. Her cheeks flame as he slides his watch back in his pocket, smooth as anything, and holds out his arm to lead her back onto the porch where no one can see them from the windows. He sets one elegant finger under her chin and brushes his lips gently over hers, and _oh_. She blazes. Only her heart is still cold.

“Well? Can I satisfy you, Lieutenant Colonel?” He sounds sure of the answer.

“Say ‘may’, not ‘can’,” she answers slyly.

He laughs, eyes gleaming slyly back. “May I satisfy you?” he murmurs in her ear, and Angelica almost feels happy.

“You may, sir. Follow me.” She takes him upstairs, to her and Eliza’s room. No, to _her_ room. “Be quiet as a mouse,” she whispers.

“I don’t want to be caught any more than you do,” Burr whispers back. He must love Mrs. Prevost very much, if the thought of being pressed into marriage with a Schuyler sister and her fortune doesn’t tempt him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulls off his boots and pulls her into his lap. She smothers a squeal.

He kisses her again. She wants to say something when she comes up for air, and she can’t because they have to be quiet, and somehow that frustration makes her skin tingle, as if she’s been shaken like a champagne bottle. She kisses him back, gasps and loves it when he slides his tongue in her mouth. Oh, she didn’t know, she didn’t know how soft it would be, how alive, how much a part of him. She bites his lip, just a little, lets it slide through her teeth, and he takes in a deep breath and shifts her in his lap—away from him, she realizes, so she won’t feel his cock hardening against her hip, and that incongruous piece of unnecessary chivalry makes her feel fond of him. 

She would have said nothing could make her feel fond of Aaron Burr. What would it have been like to share this with Alexander?

“Touch me,” she says under her breath, and he slips his hands inside his coat to circle her waist, slides one up to cup her corseted breast. “Lower down,” she hisses. He chuckles, a little warm hum against her neck (which he’s kissing), and puts his hand on her ankle. 

A hot wave of arousal rushes over her, she’s drowning, she gasps for air as he slides his hand up her leg under her skirts until he gets to her bare thigh. Oh _God_ , his fingertips are roughened and they’re on her bare thigh. Her legs open instinctively and his fingers play over her cunt. He pulls away from kissing her neck to watch her face. It’s a blatant power move but she doesn’t care, she stares right into his eyes as one of his fingers slips inside her. She’s only done that once or twice herself, because it’s awkward and after a minute her wrist hurts.

“You like that?” he whispers. His finger slides in and out, in and out. It seems to fill the space, how can his cock possibly fit? It doesn’t really feel like much physically, but it’s impossibly intimate and she likes that, likes how shocking and improper it is to be so intimate with an officer she barely knows. 

But she doesn’t like that he’s done this so many times before and she hasn’t. It’s not fair, and she hates faltering, hates being out of the loop. “More,” she demands, hoping she sounds like Angelica Schuyler who’s never afraid of anything.

Burr’s smile gleams in the dim light. He withdraws his finger and moves her off his lap, onto the bed, easing her onto her back. She pulls up her skirts for him, and he likes that, smiles a little less brashly and slides his finger back inside her, his thumb rubbing over her clit. 

His head dips between her legs, and suddenly his tongue is where his thumb was. She had no idea how good this felt, she never knew, why didn’t anyone _tell_ her in all the years of titillating gossip? She can’t see Burr’s face or hands. Her pile of skirts is in the way, all she can see is the uniform and for a second she imagines Alexander, Alexander’s smart mouth. Her hips come off the bed.

“Shhh,” Burr murmurs before putting his mouth on her again. She can’t see him and as good as it feels it’s not what she really wants. She pulls him up so he’s lying on top of her. This is what she wants, his weight pressing her into the bed, his mouth on hers. She reaches down, feeling for his breeches buttons.

He pulls back. “I’m not going to fuck you. You know that, right?”

She didn’t. She’s disappointed, even though it’s smart. For a moment that humiliates her, as if he has the upper hand, but then she thinks, _Burr’s the smart one, and I’m the reckless one,_ and feels great again. “I thought you said there was more than one way to satisfy a lady,” she says, as if she knows what she means.

He laughs and unbuttons his breeches, so apparently she does mean something. Something hard and hot settles in the juncture of her thighs. He rolls his hips, and his cock slides along her. She suddenly gets the idea, shifting and wriggling and

Oh.

Oh God.

Oh my God. His cock slides across her clit and it’s proof of a loving God, because it was so obviously made for the purpose, exactly the right size, the right hardness, the right everything, she can’t believe it. She digs her nails into his arms and rubs herself against him, skin to skin, lost in wonder— 

“I wish I could take your clothes off,” he murmurs, and she’s startled because he means it. There’s genuine, wistful urgency in his voice. She didn’t know Burr could sound that way. Suddenly she wants that too, all these heaps of silk and muslin and linen and wool are just standing between her and what she wants, which is Burr’s skin. She imagines it, his bare shoulders above her, his bare arms and chest and legs, and she’s sure that it’s beautiful. Pulling his shirt out of his breeches as best she can with his suspenders still on beneath his waistcoat, she slides her hands up his back, scratching her nails lightly along his spine. Mmmm, that’s nice. He stops supporting himself so much on his arms and sinks into her, breathing heavily.

She’s going to come. Is she really going to—with Burr watching—what will her face look like—will he laugh—she moans softly and it’s too late, far too late to pull away. The orgasm is different than it is with her fingers, less defined, she has to strain for it a little but oh, she mashes her clit against Burr’s dick and shuts her eyes and presses her hands flat against his warm back.

“Well, Lieutenant Colonel?” he whispers when it's over. “Are you satisfied?”

No. Not really.

She pushes him off her. He sits up obligingly, his dick sticking out of his pants. She’s never seen one this close before. It’s kind of silly-looking, honestly, which doesn’t detract from its allure at all. She takes it in her hand and watches Burr.

A hopeful smile blossoms on his face. “Let me show you—”

Maybe she should have just let him hang. She snickers to herself at that. “Nope. I’d rather experiment.”

He shrugs and leans back on his hands, giving her free rein. She likes the way his skin slides smoothly up and back in her hand. She likes watching his face. She likes the way his breath hisses between his teeth when she does something that feels good. He doesn't try to instruct her again. Alexander wouldn't be able to help himself, he wouldn't be able to stop talking—she looks at Burr, at his smooth beautiful face ragged at the edges with pleasure.

She thought this would be angry and mean, and she’d wanted that, but it’s like a snowflake on her tongue instead. Pure and sweet while it lasted, but gone without a trace as soon as it began. She's already getting bored.

His hips jerk helplessly. "Handkerchief," he whispers. "You’ll need it soon. Left coat pocket."

Thankfully he’s right, and in another minute it's over. She's fascinated by his seed, milky and strange. It seems messy and inconvenient; she's glad she doesn't do it.

He puts himself to rights, then holds out a hand for his coat. She takes it off reluctantly, chilled without it, annoyed by how perfectly it settles on his shoulders, because it was made for him and not her. "Now that you've scratched my back," he says delicately, "perhaps you might...scratch my back?"

Is he seriously about to try to blackmail her? She can't feel anything but mildly exasperated. "What?"

He adjusts his cuffs. "Do you know Mrs. Prevost?"

"Your girlfriend."

He chuckles. "I wish. She's just a friend."

Well, he’s _capable_ of discretion. That's something.

"I worry about her," he says. "She sympathizes with the Revolution, but her husband is a British officer. Will you keep an eye on her for me? Make sure nobody makes trouble for her?"

Was this his plan all along? To get Schuyler backing for his Loyalist mistress? "You could have just asked."

He makes an innocent face. "I am."

She snorts. "Fine. Now get out, and if anyone catches you, tell them you were looking for a chamber pot."

"Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs," Burr says, making it sound filthy even in a whisper. "Check the hallway."

The coast is clear. He disappears down the stairs.

Angelica hastily makes the bed, then stands back to look at it critically.

She’s surprised to find that it feels like her bed now, all hers. She hears Alexander's delighted bark of laughter downstairs and pain spears through her, but she can bear that. She'll be fine on her own.

 

2\. _Love doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints_ \- Aaron Burr and John Laurens 

Aaron catches sight of Angelica Schuyler coming down the stairs and rushes out the door with one glove on so he doesn’t have to think of something funny to say to her.

Snow is coming down outside, and he has nowhere to go; Theodosia’s household won’t be asleep for at least an hour. He sits on the Schuylers’ stoop to put on his glove, and forgets to stand up again.

_I will never understand you. If you love this woman, go get her! What are you waiting for?_

He replays the words over and over, like running his tongue over a sore tooth. Alexander never _will_ understand him, that’s plain enough. How could he? He can push as much as he likes, make as many demands as he pleases, because if one lover wearies of him, he’ll always have a good back-up plan. Hell, the Schuylers’ ballroom is filled with his back-up plans right now. And the amazing thing is, Alexander’s genuinely talked himself into love with all of them. If General Schuyler’s daughter Eliza wouldn’t have him, he could have been happy with Angelica, and if _she_ turned him down, there’s always John Laurens, son of the President of the Continental Congress, or the Marquis de Lafayette, with his grand estates in France.

There was even a time when Alexander lavished his swooning, poetic love letters on Aaron Burr, who has no living influential family connections at all to recommend him, and reproached him bitterly if he didn’t reply three times a week.

Some people don’t fall in love so easily. Some people aren’t lucky enough to only fall in love with people who are entirely free to follow their hearts. Some people can’t afford to ruin something beautiful because it isn’t enough for them. 

For a moment Alexander’s voice rises above the din inside, drunk, or drunk on happiness, or both.

Sometimes Aaron wishes he hadn’t been so careful about burning Alexander’s letters after reading them. They’d be nice to look over on nights he feels lonely. Which is most nights, unless Theodosia lets him stay or he can find someone else to share his bed.

If Theodosia sent him away— She’s sweet and sharp, funny and brilliant and beautiful and stubborn and darling and sad and his hands feel empty without her breasts in them and he _can’t lose her_. What would he even push for? For her to leave her husband and live with him openly? That would ruin everything: his career, her social life, their children’s chance to have married parents and not grow up scorned and angry like Alexander. Who cares if Aaron has to wait a while to marry her?

Mr. Prevost hasn’t been well. He’s bound to die sooner or later, if the rebels in Georgia don’t dispatch him first. It's all Aaron can do not to pray for it.

The door opens behind him.

“Oh!” someone says in surprise. “I almost tripped over you!”

It’s Laurens. Aaron hasn’t seen him this drunk in a while. Oh, he’s seen him _drinking_ —more than he’s seen him _not_ drinking, when they’re away from headquarters anyway—but the effects are hard to spot these days. That’s not a good sign, but it seems superfluous to worry about Laurens’s health. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and it will be a miracle if the reckless aide-de-camp survives the war.

The only reason Aaron doesn’t worry about Alexander is because it’s clear by now he lives a charmed life.

Laurens’s hand comes down on his shoulder. “Aaron Burr!” he says heartily—too heartily, but Aaron understands pitching your happiness too high. 

He wants to say something nasty to get Laurens back for that _special someone on the side_ crack, but honestly it warms him that Laurens thought he was worth being jealous of. And it would be stupid for an ambitious man to alienate the son of the President of Congress. “Laurens,” he replies cordially.

“Have a drink with me!”

Sighing, Aaron stands. He’s bought Laurens a lot of drinks in his life; he’s tried to keep him from doing anything too stupid equally often. He thinks tonight should probably be the second one. 

Laurens’s freckled, open face in the dim light from the windows—there’s something sour in looking at it. It feels like Aaron’s heart is shrinking with distaste. He’s clearly the only person in America who feels that way. Why are pains-in-the-ass always the most beloved?

But now that Aaron thinks about it, until the last few years he never particularly disliked Laurens himself. The guy always seemed happy to see him, and always invited him to spit a verse no matter how often he’d been rebuffed. Laurens liked everybody, and in a way it seemed fair that the world returned his regard. 

It seemed fair until the night Aaron met Alexander, and Alexander couldn’t flee his careful winter fast enough for the chance to bask in Laurens’s blithe summer.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink. Do you have to go back to headquarters tonight?”

Laurens slings an arm around his shoulder and almost pitches them both down the stairs. “We’ll toast Alexander’s happiness!”

“Where are you staying?”

Laurens names a tavern not too far off.

“All right, let’s go.”

Laurens isn’t quite as drunk as he thought at first. Once they’re off the wet, slippery porch, he can walk without help, and his raucous good cheer fades once they’re out of Alexander’s hearing. He walks with his hands in his pockets, head down against the snow.

When they reach the tavern, Laurens heads straight for the bar. Aaron grabs his arm. “You’ve had enough, Laurens. Come on, where’s your room?” Laurens’s eyes narrow for a moment. If he pulls away, Aaron will just go, content he’s done his due diligence. 

He gives in with a sunny smile. “You’re a mother hen, Burr, you know that?” Aaron grits his teeth. But Laurens claps him on the back and jerks his head toward the stairs. “I’m on the second floor.” 

Aaron follows him up, and waits dutifully while he fumbles his key into the lock. If it were Alexander, he'd pluck the key familiarly from his hand and open the door himself—but it isn't Alexander.

Laurens turns back and leans against the doorframe. “Well, you’ve escorted me safely home, like a gentleman.” He makes careful eye contact through his lashes and half-smiles. Aaron is trying to decide whether to notice the invitation when Laurens gives up on subtlety and lunges, planting a desperate kiss on his mouth.

Aaron's body wakes up.

Damn it, damn it, why does he always need this so badly? But he does and it doesn't matter why, he pushes Laurens into his room and shuts the door behind them, he still has most of an hour before Theodosia is expecting him. 

“Do you think Alexander is deflowering his blushing bride yet?” he asks, unable to help himself.

“Shut up shut up shut up.” Laurens shoves him against the wall and gets his hand in Aaron’s pants, a little slow and sloppy but it doesn’t matter. Aaron wraps his hand around Laurens’s and sets the pace himself, oh Christ, his fingers tangled with Laurens’s, _yes._

He doesn’t understand what it is about sex he likes so much. But someone touching him, letting him touch them—it fills him with joy, with relief, or maybe it’s just a sudden shocking absence of sadness. Laurens kisses him again, curves his hand around the back of Aaron’s neck and slides his fingers up over Aaron’s skull. “It looks smooth but it’s prickly,” he says, giggling into Aaron’s mouth. Aaron tightens their hands around his cock, moaning, and pulls Laurens closer. Their tongues touch, Laurens rubs against Aaron's hip, his eyelashes sweep over Aaron's cheek, Laurens’s hair tickles his neck—

Aaron comes all over their fingers.

Laurens laughs, drunk and lazy, and licks a finger clean, sucking it suggestively into his mouth like it’s the funniest thing anyone’s ever done. Alexander and his friends act like a bunch of schoolboys, it’s embarrassing. Aaron is already on his knees opening Laurens’s breeches.

Laurens’s head thuds against the wall when he sucks him down. He shuts his eyes, listening to Laurens moan. Aaron doesn’t even like him, but he mumbles “Sweet Jesus, Burr,” and for one shining moment Aaron is doing everything right.

It takes a while. Aaron doesn’t mind. 

Afterwards, Laurens tugs him toward the bed. “Stay the night,” he says, still trying to sound cheerful, but Aaron can see the tear tracks on his face. 

“I can’t. I—I have to go.”

Laurens plumps down on the bed, his hand still resting in Aaron’s. “Don’t leave me alone tonight.” Giving up on cheerful, then.

Aaron feels sorry for him, but it’s not like he’s going to break a date with Theodosia. “Drink some water or you’ll have a headache tomorrow.”

Laurens shrugs.

“I’ll tell the tapster to send you up some cream of tartar punch.” At the door, he hesitates. _If you wanted Alexander, why didn’t you fight for him?_

He doesn’t say it. He glances back. Laurens is sitting perfectly still, his face in his hands. 

Aaron slips out the door, glad to get away. A little smug, even. _He’s_ got a special someone waiting for him.

 

3\. _At least I keep his eyes in my life_ \- John Laurens and Angelica Schuyler

Burr slips out of the ballroom. John feels lower than dirt. Why should he have driven Burr away, only because jealousy is a monster that lurks just below his skin and looks out his eyes, filling his body to bursting? 

He’s been unkind all evening. _To the newly not poor of us!_ —he’s been trying so hard all evening to sound happy and affectionate, because he loves Alexander and he wants him to be happy more than anything. He would die to make Alexander happy.

Dying sounds less unpleasant than smiling through the rest of this party, honestly. 

He’s been trying so hard, and everything that comes out of his mouth is so awful.

He overheard what Alexander said to Burr. _If you love this woman, go get her!_ As if it were that simple. As if John hasn’t been fighting for Alexander since the day they met. 

When _he_ suggested they forsake all others, Alexander said love ought to be free and quoted Pope. And John believed him. They were in love and nothing, no one else mattered. Alexander could sleep with half the population of New York, and it didn’t change a thing. After all, didn’t Pope write:

_‘Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,_  
_When love is liberty, and nature, law:_  
_All then is full, possessing, and possess'd,_  
_No craving void left aching in the breast’?_

But as soon as Alexander fell in love with someone he _could_ legally tie to himself, he suddenly discovered the exquisite pleasures of monogamy. _Please don’t be mad,_ he said, and John didn’t know how to say anything but _Of course I won’t._

John’s father was as rich and important as General Schuyler. He would have shared and shared alike with Alexander till the day he died. But he supposed that wasn’t certain enough, official enough, impressive enough for Alexander. That wouldn’t make Alexander a gentleman.

There is a craving void in his breast that may never be filled again with anything but resentment and longing, and John hates it. Alexander is a little drunk and he’s telling Eliza a very funny story about one of Baron von Steuben’s parties, his voice rising with hilarity—

John slips out of the room. He intends to step outside for a moment and clear his head, but a slight movement to his right catches his eye.

Angelica, the oldest, wittiest Schuyler sister, is sitting at the foot of the stairs in the semi-dark while a party she planned is going on in the next room.

He’s been wondering about her all night. She’s seemed too happy, too bright, diamond-edged—but he wasn’t sure. Maybe he was only seeing himself, not her. Now he’s sure. She loves Alexander too.

For a moment a sort of bitter, inky pride flares in his heart: _Alexander’s really something, isn’t he?_

He goes towards her. “Yo, Angelica, are you okay?”

She gives him a bright smile. “Just got bored with champagne. I’m sneaking Daddy’s port, you want some?”

The port goes down easy and too sweet. John wants more right away, but Angelica doesn’t offer. She rests her elbow on her knee and her chin on her fist. “Why is Alexander friends with Aaron Burr? He’s such a douche.”

John laughs, a little guiltily. Burr doesn’t deserve all this mockery. He loves Alexander too; John can hear it in his voice. “Awww, he’s not so bad.” 

She sighs. “You’re just saying that because you’re both men.”

“What?”

“You always invite him to spit with you, even though I’ve never heard him take you up on it. Meanwhile no one has ever, not once, asked _me_ to spit. Because I’m a woman, so I must not know how to freestyle.”

John feels a headache coming on. “You freestyle?” He tries to sound enthused about the discovery. “That’s dope!” he adds, because he doesn’t think he quite hit it.

She sets her glass down, tapping out a beat on the stair with her silk slipper. Her dark curls sway rhythmically.

“This is Angelica in the place to be  
Mess with Eliza and you mess with me  
You’re in love with her husband  
NBD, so am I  
But keep it in your britches if you want to survive.”

She simpers angrily at him. “How was my flow, Mr. Laurens?”

He’s not drunk enough for this. He’s not sober enough either. He doesn’t know what Alexander’s told them, he can’t betray Alexander’s trust...his head spins. Why isn’t she talking to Alexander to begin with? If she plans to threaten everybody he’s slept with, it could take her a few months.

She must think John is more likely to listen to her. That makes him sad for her, and weirdly indignant on Alexander’s behalf. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you don’t have to worry about your sister. Alexander’s crazy about her. I know him. He won’t hurt her.”

He feels a little calmer saying it. It’s true. Alexander’s always been upfront about what he’s doing, what he wants. The guy’s even tried to be fair. It’s just that some things aren’t fair. That’s not Alexander’s fault.

“Really? You think so?” Angelica relaxes. Like, she _relaxes_. Has she been sitting out here brooding about this? “Because I’m her big sister, and I—” Her words turn into a squeaking sound, like she’s drunk and maybe on the verge of tears. She presses a fist to her bosom, and John notices that...it’s actually a pretty nice bosom. “I think so too. I was just being silly, I guess.”

He smiles down at her. “You’ve got a nice flow.” 

She huffs a laugh, smiling back. Delighted by the compliment. “Thank you.”

John sits next to her on the stairs, far too close, and leans in. “You only want me to keep it in my britches around Alexander, right?”

She turns her face towards him, laughing and pulling away. He lets their eye-beams twist together, John Donne style. He makes promises with his gaze, wrapping one of her curls lightly around his finger. Her hair is beautiful; he’s surprised himself by how much its caress against his skin turns him on.

She takes in a sharp breath. Yes. Yes, this is going to happen, this moment at least responding to his desires, shaping itself to his will. “You forget yourself, Mr. Laurens,” she says, but he doesn’t think she means it.

“I want to forget myself,” he says in a low voice. “Don’t you?”

Her eyes widen. She nods. “Come on.”

He follows her to her room, his misgivings and urgency growing together. It’s dark, lit only by a lamp left burning very low. She’s shadows and warmth and a peach silk dress, and she pulls him by the hand to sit beside her on her bed. He kisses her, trying to pretend this is naughty and fun, fooling around while—

God. While Alexander’s wedding supper is downstairs. 

He deepens the kiss, needing her, needing something so he won’t think about it, won’t think about Alexander’s face, about his teeth on John’s lower lip, about the way he’d laugh softly in John’s ear like he was just so happy to be here, to be doing this together. John tips Angelica back on the bed, and instead of anything fun or naughty he thinks _I have to get her wet if we’re going to fuck._ He pushes her skirt up, knowing this isn’t going to be his best performance.

“Don’t tell Alexander about this, okay?” 

She shakes her head. “Don’t you either.”

He gets his hand between her legs and rubs her clit. It seems to take her an eternity to grow wet, and he sympathizes but he can’t seem to think of anything sexy to help her out. Instead he just feels desperate. _Imagine I’m him,_ he thinks, but he can’t say that, it’s disgusting. 

Angelica gets tenser and tenser beside him, and he wishes she would say something, tell him what to do, but he can’t bring himself to ask. He doesn’t want to talk. Eventually she’s slick, her hips moving a little and her breath uneven, so he rolls on top of her and pushes inside with relief.

She takes a startled, pained breath, and he suddenly realizes she’s a virgin. Can this get any worse? She probably dreamed of a wedding night with Alexander and instead she got this, this craving void where love and faith and freedom are supposed to be.

He buries his face in her hair, unable to face the rest of his life. Will this act of joy ever be joyful again? She puts a tentative hand on his back, holding him close.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry, I’m not usually this—” His throat closes. 

“I’m sure you’re a very generous lover.” Her laugh cuts off on a sob, and then they’re both crying, they’re crying and he’s fucking her and honestly, it feels—not good, but he wants it, he wants more of it, he can’t get enough. He rolls his hips and she wraps her legs around his, pressing her hand over her mouth but he can hear her wheezing, tearful breaths. He brushes her hair back from her face and presses snotty, wobbly kisses to her neck and cheek that he vaguely intends to be comforting. “It’s going to be okay,” he tells her.

She nods fiercely. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow it will be okay.”

The tears don’t stop on their own; he comes, his body convulsing, and then he cuts them off. His throat feels raw. He blows his nose, mortified but oddly light. “Come here.”

She pushes down her skirts, sniffling, and shakes her head. “It’s okay.”

He feels guilty about that but doesn’t have the energy to argue, so he just wipes at his face with his cuff and says, “Get me word right away if you’re pregnant. I—you know I’m a soldier. Don’t put it off.”

“Alexander would be thrilled if we got married,” she says, and they both laugh a little hysterically, because it’s true. The idea of being Alexander’s brother-in-law is both alluring and grotesque. “There’s water in the basin.” She splashes water on her own face.

He does the same, and as he does his fantasy of going downstairs and heading straight out the door dies a quiet death. He can’t do that. Alexander will think he’s mad at him. He’ll have to go back to the party and pretend nothing happened.

“Wait a few minutes and follow me down,” she says, fixing her hair in the mirror and frowning at a soggy patch on her shoulder where his tears have definitely ruined the silk. She wets a handkerchief and pats it. “I’ll say I spilled champagne on my dress.”

He waits in Angelica’s room when she’s gone, counting out the seconds and hoping his eyes won’t be red by the time five minutes is up. He wishes he could curl up in her bed and go to sleep. It’s a comfortable bed, better than anything he’s slept on since joining Washington’s staff.

“John!” Alexander says when he gets downstairs, slinging a relieved arm around his shoulder. “Where were you? I thought you left!”

John can’t help glancing at Angelica, who’s tucking a flower behind her sister’s ear. “I just needed to sober up. I went for a walk.” The lie does actually feel a little naughty and fun.

“In the snow?” Alexander makes a face.

John’s breath catches again at how cute it is. But he swallows the lump in his throat and tugs Alexander’s queue hard. “Wuss. I don’t know how you managed Valley Forge.”

“It was a close-run thing. Eliza, did I tell you about the time I almost froze to death?”

Eliza rolls her eyes conspiratorially at John. “Which one?”

John isn’t mad. He isn’t.

Tomorrow it will be okay. Tonight, it doesn’t have to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical note: Alexander Hamilton [quoted that Pope poem in a love letter to Eliza](http://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0940), and Aaron Burr was fond of [cream of tartar punch](http://www.forgottenbooks.com/readbook_text/The_Philadelphia_1000115778/145) as a hangover remedy.


End file.
